


Imperfect

by Furiyan



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: 76 and Widowmaker on a sort of road trip, Ended up chaptered, Enemies to Lovers, F/M, I ain't even mad, probably screwed this up anyhow, this ship will be the death of me, was supposed to be a oneshot, will contain smut
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-01
Updated: 2017-06-05
Packaged: 2018-09-21 09:29:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,991
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9541568
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Furiyan/pseuds/Furiyan
Summary: A chance encounter in Dorado has far reaching consequences for the weary, dry, cantankerous Jack Morrison, Soldier: 76. A shadowy organisation is on the rise, changing the face of the Earth as they know it.And all he has at his side is his pulse rifle, the broken remnants of a once-revered peacekeeping organisation, his unwavering tenacity and resolve......and Talon's beautiful, seductive, deadly and unsurpassed assassin, Widowmaker.However, the two harbingers of death realise working together isn't going to be as simple as they thought, and the darkness against them runs deeper than they know.





	1. Chapter 1

**“Imperfect”**

 

Jack Morrison, once Strike Commander of Overwatch, now renegade fugitive under the name Soldier: 76, has reached that point in his life where pretty much everything annoys him.

 

Hana’s attitude to war as though it’s all some sort of goddamn game, as though people aren’t fucking dying, annoys him.

 

McCree’s cowboy posturing and general belief he’s a gunslinger born two hundred-odd years too late annoys him. Worst part is, Jack did like western movies before McCree showed up.

 

Angela’s constant nagging annoys him. For someone who never fails to criticise the use of violence, and preaches the benefit of peace - like _that’s_ not what they’re all fighting for - she picked an odd environment to be in.

 

Then there’s the whole Mom and Dad thing.

 

And don’t even get him started on Lena. Kid won’t slow down for anything. One of these days, she’s gonna get herself in the kind of trouble she can’t blink out of - like King’s Row.

 

Hell, Overwatch itself annoys him the most. It’s pointless, idealistic, a product of a world before it was no longer needed. A remnant of a bygone age, of heroes and glory, sacrifice and honour. Values that ceased to mean a damn thing when the Swiss HQ went sky high. The world has changed; there are no more heroes, and hankering for the bygone days is futile sentiment.

 

As 76, Jack has no time for sentiment.

 

It’s pretty safe to say the words _grouchy_ and _cantankerous_ come with a sparkling photograph of his delightful, scarred good looks, so it’s no surprise he’s at his most relaxed when doing what he does best - hunting Talon alone.

 

He scrambles over the rooftops of Dorado with all the grace and skill of an inebriated Reinhardt, but there’s an elegant practicality to it. He may not have the catlike agility of Genji, but as far as he’s concerned, it doesn’t matter how you get from A to B, so long as you get there.

 

And B happens to be a known Talon weapons cache.

 

Intel gathered through various avenues - that is, violence and coercion - has led Jack to a small place near the outskirts of Dorado. It’s a basic, average looking house with little to nothing to make it stand out. It even has the _Festival de Luz_ decorations on the front, and as far as he can tell, great pains have been taken to ensure it hides in plain sight while it protects weapons bound for the Los Muertos gang.

 

It’s not good enough if you know what you’re looking for - and Jack certainly does.

 

As did whoever got there first, and as he drops down from the building just across from it and kicks down the door, pulse thundering and ready to unleash a full clip of blue fury into the room, his tactical visor registers no targets, and the dim lighting reveals the silent aftermath.

 

The scene in the living room is carnage, in a brutally efficient sort of way. Four Talon operatives sitting around a table, a deck of cards and several dozen chips sprawled before them, all slumping forward or back over their chairs like masterless marionettes. Each head sporting a nice, red hole in one side.

 

Eyes scanning the room, Jack can’t help but lift an impressed brow over his visor, the ruby red light flashing in appreciation. Aside from the four dead mooks, nothing looks out of place. There’s no broken chairs or smashed pictures as would befit a struggle, and the only bullet holes in the whole damn room are in the mooks themselves. It’s like a goddamn _ghost_ just walked in, executed the poor fuckers before they even knew what hit them, and walked out.

 

Reaper’s his first suspect, but those two cannons of his would’ve turned them into paste.

 

Maybe it was Los Muertos? They probably got pissed off with being spoon-fed their weapons, and decided to make the biggest mistake they ever made by biting the hand that feeds them. It’s the option that makes the most sense - so, shouldering his pulse rifle, Jack does a quick room-by-room search of the house for confirmation.

 

Ten minutes later, with every nook, cranny and closet searched, his curiosity has not been sated and has, in fact, deepened: the weapons are still there. Rifles, pistols, knives, grenades, everything you need for a small war, all safely packed away in dark grey _unopened_ crates.

 

A question raises itself in his mind, as he swings the rifle to rest on top of his shoulder, and tries to ignore the sensation of disquiet prickling at his stomach while he gazes over the deadly game of poker. Everything, from the surgically clean kills to the ignored weapons points to one possibility: the Talon mooks were the targets all along, and the intruder was skilled enough to get in, pop all four in the head, and get out without leaving a trace or raising an alarm.

 

So, who did it?

 

It’s a question that’s knocked out of his head - almost literally - when, preceded by a tell-tale, air-splitting bang, the left side of his face snaps sideways with the force of a Reinhardt-strength punch. Uttering a shocked yell, Jack’s entire body is thrust to the ground, and the wooden floor bites into the right side of his body with the momentum imbued by the bullet.

 

And then comes the pain, searing, throbbing pain that blossoms and spreads through his head, setting his left eye, jaw and ear on fire. Dazed, his vision fills with blurred lines where edges ought to be, his mind spinning.

 

He blindly fumbles around him for his rifle; conscious of his vulnerable state. Even though the modifications Torbjörn made to his visor stopped his brains from redecorating the nearby wall, he’s still a fish in a barrel for whoever took the shot in the first place.

 

The thudding of two boots landing on the floor reaches his ears, and he closes his eyes in resignation as he realises the shooter’s just arrived to finish the job. There’s a clattering as his rifle is kicked away, and the pressure of a heeled boot finds his chest, forcing him into the floor.

 

Sic transit gloria Jack Morrison, ignominiously killed in a nondescript Dorado house, because he got careless and stupid in his old age and stood near a window. That should be his obituary - heck, if he ever comes back from the dead again, he’ll write the damn thing himself.

 

“ _Salut, Soixante-Seize_.”

 

Then again, it might not be such a bad way to go. He opens his eyes, and is greeted with the glorious legs that go all the way up, a peek at the celestial derriere, curvaceous yet slender frame wrapped in a figure-hugging black bodysuit, plunging navel line - it’s not a neck line, and nor has it ever been - faint blue skin and amused yellow eyes belonging to only one person.

 

Oh, and the circular muzzle of her rifle pointed square between his eyes. Can’t forget that.

 

“Widowmaker,” he rasps.

 

She emits a throaty, silky titter, and the corners of her lips tug into a malevolent smile. “The famous _Soldat Soixante-Seize,_ fearless warrior and thorn in Talon’s side-”

 

It would be a lie for Jack to say he didn’t derive a little pleasure from that.

 

“-at my mercy. _Enchanté.”_

 

He scoffs, and tests her footing by shifting his body half an inch. The way her heel immediately digs into his ribs reminds him she has the upper hand.

 

“Pleasure’s all mine,” he says in his usual gruff growl. He doesn’t know whether it’s the company or the situation, but the throbbing pain in his head isn’t nearly as bad. “This your handiwork?”

 

He twitches his head toward the table, hoping that a momentary distraction could enable him to _break_ that upper hand.

 

She doesn’t bite. She doesn’t even _move._

 

“ _Non._ I rather assumed it was yours. Eliminating hapless Talon operatives is your area of expertise, _n’est-ce pas?”_

 

He scoffs again, mildly insulted. “Like this? Not my style.”

 

She titters again, dark amusement in her mirth. “Now that I can believe. You usually make much more… noise…”

 

There’s something in how she emphasises with such silky smoothness, the very last word, that causes a flicker of something wholly incongruent to the danger he’s in. He snorts, and makes a show of pushing himself up by his elbows - another heel-jab puts paid to that - whilst shoving as much annoyance into his gruff growl as possible. Not that it’s difficult. “Look, we gonna do this dance all night, or are you gonna pull the trigger? ‘Cause I’ve got things to do.”

 

Her muscles visibly tense under that admittedly sexy bodysuit of hers, and the rifle is levelled just that little bit more as a threat. “ _Non,_ ” she says, resolve dancing on her voice, “as much as I would like to kill you right now, this is too easy. I would be depriving myself the pleasure of the hunt - besides, the capture of _Soldat Soixante-Seize_ would make a much more rewarding consolation prize.”

 

“You know I won’t come quietly.”

 

A finely sculpted eyebrow arches, and her head tilts just an inch as her smirk takes on one hell of a double-entendre vibe. “Oh, I hope not, _Soldat_.”

 

That’s the end of that, then. The rifle rises half an inch, and her eyes peer down at him through the sights of her rifle. Her face is expressionless save for the satisfied smile curling her lips, and his defiant gaze flicks up through his visor to the headset adorning her forehead, seven red lenses bearing down on him like a spider moving in for the kill. “Widowmaker to Echo-One, come in, please.”

 

Silence descends into the room and settles like the Grim Reaper awaiting his next collection - the actual Grim Reaper, not Gabriel Reyes playing dress-up. He looks her dead in the eye, watching her sculpted blue face for any visual tics as she undoubtedly listens to whoever’s on the other end of the earpiece.

 

...but then her brow furrows slightly, and the smile falls to a line.

 

“Echo One, this is Widowmaker. Respond, _s’il vous plait.”_

 

There’s a harder edge to her voice, and under his gaze, her body tenses enough to be noticeable. Something’s going on, and judging by her rapidly vanishing movement, it isn’t good.

 

“Echo One, come in!”

 

There are times when Jack considers his mask a nuisance, especially when he’s wearing one of the most amused smirks he’s ever worn. Oh, how he’d love for her to see it.

 

“What’s the matter - union strike? Can’t get the staff, these days.”

 

Her yellow eyes narrow, and whatever semblance of playful malevolence and dark humour flies out of the window. “What have you done to them?”

 

He shrugs as best he can. “Beats me.”

 

Her lips pull apart to reveal alabaster, gritted teeth. So much for having the upper hand - the situation’s going sideways on her, and she’s rapidly realising it. “Liar. Tell me, and maybe I’ll kill you qui-”

 

The sound of a heavy thud and the spraying of plaster over cuts her threat short. Attracted by the noise, Jack’s eyes flick to the wall at his left - there’s a hole. Curious; that wasn’t there when he got here.

 

He looks back at Widowmaker - her face has slackened in shock, her rifle has lowered to the point only the floor at the side of his head is in danger, and her right hand is pressed at the right side of her neck, like a mosquito just made a horrible mistake.

 

It’s when he sees the presence of a _new_ colour slipping down the left side of her neck that he realises what’s just happened.

 

Sniper.

 

 _“Soldat?”_ she whispers, her breathy voice full of confusion. She sways a little on her feet, and the pressure on his chest is practically nonexistent. Red liquid continues sliding on its merry way down her neck and through her fingers, and as gravity finally takes its hold on her, she crumples to the floor at his right.

 

He finds himself yelling her name, and rolls over. Her mouth opens and closes with wet gurgles mixing with labored gasps for air while he checks her wound, and her legs writhe against empty space whilst her eyes glare at him like it’s his damn fault she was shot.

 

What a reversal of fortunes this is.

 

“You’re gonna hate me for this, Widowmaker,” he says, “but I’m about to save your life.”

 

Jack’s hand automatically reaches for the biotic field generator on his bandolier, which is a movement that saves his skin; another burst of plaster precedes the whizz of something rushing past his face. His military reflexes kick in; abandoning Widowmaker for the moment, he launches from his kneeling position into a sprint for the dining room at the back of the house, picking up his rifle along the way.

 

The bastard probably used infrared imaging. He’s got to be quick.

 

The west-facing window greets him with its beams of moonlight shining through, and a vocal command activates his tactical visor as he shoulders the rifle and takes a quick peek through the glass - idiot hasn’t even moved.

 

Sniping 101: shoot, relocate. Shoot, relocate.

 

His visor interface labels the crouching sniper with white square crosshairs, distance measurements and optimal bullet trajectories - a three second burst of pulse fire, and a trio of helix rockets puts an end to him in an explosion of red mist.

 

A little over-the-top, but if he’s got infrared imaging and armor-piercing bullets, Jack’s taking no chances and putting that asshole down.

 

He sprints back to Widowmaker and drops to his knees a little too hard on the floor next to her, just in time to see the flash of fear in her eyes before they roll into the back of her head. The hand once covering her wound flops away, revealing the bloodstained entry wound - and a _lot_ less blood than is usually expected. A wound like this should have her redecorating the room in claret.

 

Time with Angela tells him it’s probably shock - quick as a flash, he pulls out a biotic field generator and slams it down by her neck. Two fingers find her carotid artery and press only to be rewarded with no pulse to speak of.

 

“No, no, no. You don’t get to die unless I kill you,” he growls, so, as the pleasant yellow field kicks in and knits together the two holes either side of her neck, he yanks off the visor and ducks down to crash their lips together.

 

Fuck, her lips are _freezing._

 

He pulls away to suck in a lungful of oxygen, and forces it down her throat. Over and over, his heart racing with adrenaline, he breathes life back into the world-class assassin, pulling away only to push a rapid rhythm into her chest with his hands.

 

There’s a click as the generator runs dry, simplistic purpose achieved. It’s up to her now.

 

“One, two, three,” he huffs over and over, pounding her ribs in between tenaciously refusing to let her lungs be stilled, and just as he begins to wonder about calling it…

 

Her body jerks back to life. Vicious coughs rip through the air, expelling blood over her mouth and the floor, and her yellow eyes shoot open with dilated black holes for pupils. Her back arches as her metal heels mindlessly seek purchase on the wooden floor, and her hands scramble for something to grasp - which happens to be the zip of his open jacket - while she sucks in lungful after lungful of precious oxygen in whooping gasps.

 

“Easy there, Widowmaker,” he says, pulling her upper body up over his lap and cradling her head with the crook of his left arm. “Welcome back.”

 

Attracted by his voice, her wide eyes find his, and a bewildered frown cuts its way across her face. _“Gérard?”_ she whispers, hoarse.

 

Damn woman must be hallucinating.

 

“Nope,” he says - wondering why that name seems so familiar.

 

It then occurs to him, as the excitement dwindles and the adrenaline ebbs away, the vulnerability of the situation they’re in. Whoever took the hit out on the cache - and, by extension, Widowmaker - is probably savvy enough to want confirmation of the kill… and Jack just turned their point man into a cloud of blood.

 

He’s the only one combat ready, and there’s no way in hell Widowmaker can even _hold_ her rifle, let alone use it.

 

So, visor returning to pride of place over his scarred visage, he makes a call through the comms software, one he never thought he’d have to make ever again.

 

The still-active line to Watchpoint: Gibraltar.

 

Winston’s picture pops up in the top right of his interface, complete with a speech line that pulses with his baritone voice.

 

_“Jack Morrison. Long time, no-”_

 

“Save it, Winston,” Jack snaps. There’s no goddamn time for his pleasantries, and definitely not enough to explain away the last five years. “I need immediate medevac, my co-ordinates. Make sure Angela’s on it.”

 

He looks down at Widowmaker in his arms, and the way her hands grasp at his jacket while her lungs work to bring her out of her stupor.

 

“And get a cell ready. I’m bringing a plus-one.”

  



	2. Chapter 2

**Imperfect 2**

 

“You ever thought about…” Jack trails off, staring at the continuous recording of Widowmaker languishing in her cell. It’s a rushed together job, but somehow Winston managed to jury-rig one of the equipment rooms into a working cell worthy of the deadliest assassin walking the earth. Arms folded tightly enough to squeeze out the air from his lungs had he not been dosed up to the nines with that S.E.P stuff, his eyes take in the imprisoned woman. Enrobed in a white boilersuit, her purple hair trails down her shoulders and spine whilst she sits _absolutely, utterly still,_ staring off into space.

 

Ana Amari, his erstwhile second-in-command and closest confidante, pulls up beside him. Her age has not dimmed her skills in the slightest, and if there was anyone he’d trust to have his back, she’s the one. Clad in her hooded coat, Jack wonders if she’s leaving - but then again, she’s probably expecting _him_ to, and is acting accordingly.

 

“...about?” She takes a sip from her tea - Indian, in a china cup, as always. An old soldier has her routine.

 

“Revenge.” He throws her a glance.

 

Ana scoffs, and her scratchy, weathered voice aptly conveys her dismissiveness. “No. I already lost one eye.” She takes another sip.

 

Jack grunts, and adjusts his feet. The observation lounge overlooking the beginning of the payload delivery route is quiet, with nothing but the unintrusive humming and dim lighting providing any form of atmosphere. It bodes ill for the tension firmly embedded in Jack’s bones - he’s never been in one place for long. Keep moving. Keep the enemy guessing.

 

Destroy them when they’re still following your ghost.

 

Of course, it’s probably _nothing_ to do with the fact he’s in Watchpoint: Goddamn Gibraltar, having utilised some teleporter shenanigans via a favour Genji called in from Satya Vaswani. It’s not Switzerland, but the very walls breathe Overwatch’s name, the corridors still echo with voices, and the air smells of a time when heroism was valued. Memories bombard his mind every second he spends here - not _all_ of them are bad, but they’re enough of a reminder that even the greatest heroes can fall from grace.

 

And some can be twisted by the darkness until only the dead recognise them.

 

He wonders if Widowmaker is one of those.

 

“I could ask _you_ the same question, Jack,” she says, further reinforcing her sharpness both on and off the battlefield. “She is responsible for the deaths of countless Overwatch members… and you saved her. Why?”

 

Jack says nothing for a time, having asked himself that question since calling in the extraction. He could have left Widowmaker to die, thereby depriving Talon of its greatest weapon and ensuring a degree of safety for pretty much anyone in their crosshairs. After all - any more Mondattas and the world will light up like the tinderbox it is.

 

“Intel… and besides, it didn’t feel right,” is the best he can muster.

 

“This, coming from the man who doesn’t play by the rules anymore?” Ana lets off a skeptical chuckle. “Try again, Jack. You know she’d never talk.”

 

He takes one sidelong glance at her, and then rolls his eyes. He could never pull the wool over her… eye, and there he is, still trying to.

 

“I was there on the ground, and the sniper shot _her_ first. I took him out, when he should have blown my head off.”

 

“Mmm.” Ana takes another sip. “Genji said he saw the remains of a Talon dropship a few clicks away. Twelve people, all dead.”

 

“Sounds like a hit.”

 

“Or a trap. They just didn’t anticipate an old soldier on his personal war.”

 

There’s a succession of quick knocks at the entrance to the observation room. Distracted by the sound, Jack’s eyes turn from the screen to rest upon none other than Angela Ziegler, her blonde hair swept into an impeccable ponytail, and clad in a white doctor’s coat and black skirt. Her hands clutch a clear glass data tablet as she regards them with a patient eye.

 

“Am I interrupting something?”

 

The air around them grows slightly colder despite the gorgeous warmth of the Gibraltar night, and Jack knows precisely why. Angela still disapproves of her biotic technology being weaponised, and there Ana is, sporting a rifle that fires such a thing. Of course, it was Ana’s aim and weaponised biotic tech that saved his complacent ass in Egypt, so far be it for him to judge.

 

“Nope,” Jack says, eager to cut the tension off at the pass. “What have you got?”

 

Blue eyes dance between Ana and Jack before she answers. “Things that, as a medical professional, make my skin crawl and make me weep for humanity.”

 

“Other than Willhelm’s puns?”

 

“Worse,” Angela says, ignoring Ana’s snark. “According to my scans, Widowmaker has undergone extensive modifications to her body. Her heart rate has been slowed to the point it is barely existent, which leads me to conclude her lungs must be able to hyper-oxygenate her blood in some way.”

 

Which explains the lack of blood spraying from her neck in the weapons cache, Jack muses to himself. It can’t spray if the heart doesn’t beat.

 

“In addition, whatever procedure Talon put her under has rendered her infertile. Coupled with the modifications to her eyes - _mein Gott,_ I can’t imagine such a thing.”

 

“Unless she _wanted_ the mods,” Jack says.

 

“Perhaps, but that is not all. I checked, double-checked and triple-checked the results. Ana was right, and the D.N.A confirms it.” Angela pauses, whether for dramatic emphasis or out of stunned shock Jack doesn’t know, as she turns to look at the screen, where Widowmaker is as impeccably still as since she arrived. “She is Amélie Lacroix.”

 

Ana says nothing, choosing instead to sip from her teacup, her eyebrows raised in a kind of _I-told-you-so_ way.

 

Jack feels the weight of Angela’s revelation sink into him. Amélie Lacroix. Charming, witty, sharp, elegant Amélie.

 

Murderer.

 

He remembers the first time he met her all those years ago. She was not easily impressed; when Gérard, a man Jack was close to and fought alongside on many an occasion, introduced him as Strike Commander of Overwatch, her response was little more than an arched brow. She was the kind of woman who could attract attention simply by walking into a room, and _boy,_ did she attract his. Intelligent, she said little, but what she _did_ say was worth the wait - unless she liked you, and then the conversation was stimulating and engaging.

 

And she did like Jack. Well, he _thought_ she did. Amélie was often hard to read.

 

Resplendent and beautiful, her movements were calculated and economic, and she had a figure only a professional ballet dancer could have, and her French accent? It was the sound silk could make if it talked.

 

She was the personification of life and peace _outside_ Overwatch, of music and dancing, happiness and longevity.

 

And then she was the murderer of her husband. Traitor, they called her. He remembers the relief and tearful joy on Gérard’s face when Overwatch returned Amélie home, remembers the look of love and joy in her expression as they embraced. The autopsy results detailing how Gérard was murdered with venom from the black widow spider, and the investigation leading to her guilt.

 

Jack didn’t want to believe it at first, even when Ana told him it was Amélie that shot her eye. Not dear, elegant, loving Amélie.

 

“Did she really do it?” Angela asks, though the distant tone lends itself more to the land of the rhetorical. “She loved Gérard…”

 

“I think anyone is capable of anything,” Ana replies. “Look at Gabriel, and what he became.”

 

“Gabe’s different,” Jack says curtly.

 

“How?”

 

“He just is.” Intent on preventing Angela from poking further, Jack fires off a quick question. “Can you reverse what Talon did to her?”

 

“To her body?” Angela shrugs. Jack doesn’t like that one bit. “Maybe. To her mind? I don’t know.”

 

Ana frowns. “Her mind?”

 

“Amélie loved Gérard. We all knew it, so for her to murder him two weeks after we rescued her from Talon leads me to conclude two things; either she truly did do it of her own volition, or-”

 

“Talon did something to her mind,” Jack finishes.

 

“ _Ja,”_ Angela says, looking at the screen. “That woman in there is _not_ the Amélie we knew.”

 

“Don’t be so sure,” Ana says to her, the slight condescension barely noticeable. “People can surprise you.”

 

Frowning, Angela opens her mouth to, Jack suspects, issue a sassy retort when the room is plunged into thick darkness. The background humming ceases, and for a few seconds, all Jack can hear is his own breathing.

 

It’s times like these he wonders if he should _ever_ take his visor off.

 

“Athena?” Angela says to the room, her voice fraught with worry.

 

Ana’s response is less than impressed. “Winston must be dallying around with his gadgets again. I’ll go and find a—”

 

Her words are masterfully sliced in two by the multitude of screens populating the observation lounge bursting into life with a single, purple, Mexican-style skull on each one. Stuttering and jerking, it glares brightly back at them like a playful taunt.

 

“What in the world is that?” Angela asks.

 

Jack knows. He’s seen it before on his travels, heard about it in his tangles with Los Muertos. Whispers and allegations of a hacker able to disappear and reappear at will, infiltrating all but the highest levels of digital encryption. Rumours of a failed assassination attempt upon Katya Volskaya.

 

“Sombra,” he growls.

 

_“Awww, and there I was thinking I could surprise you.”_

 

The purple skull disappears, revealing a young Latino woman with purple-tipped black hair draped down the right side of her head, the left side shaven to make way for what looks like tech embedded in her skull. She regards him with amused, playful eyes, the left side of her lips curled up in a smirk.

 

“Not a lot surprises me, Sombra.”

 

 _“Of course not, Jack Morrison. Once Strike Commander of Overwatch, now wanted vigilante and international fugitive going by the name Soldier Seventy Six.”_ She chuckles slyly. _“Don’t worry. Your secret is safe with me.”_

 

She turns to look at Angela. _“Well, well. Angela Ziegler, codename: Mercy._ _Humanitarian, doctor, philanthropist, medic. Orphaned daughter of two. I gotta say, your qualifications_ are _impressive. Be a shame if someone… deleted them.”_

 

Her eyes move to Ana. _“And we have Captain Ana Amari. Soldier in the Egyptian Army, then second-in-command of Overwatch. Mother of Fareeha Amari, security chief of Helix. Famed sniper, and immortal ghost. Widowmaker talks a lot about you - all bad things, all bad things.”_

 

“You forgot to add, _‘able to shoot hackers in the eye from over a kilometre away’,”_ Ana snarks. “Or has that not happened yet?”

 

Sombra faux-winces as she sucks in a breath. _“Ooh, sassy, too! I can tell you and I could be_ great _friends. I gotta ask, though-”_ she screws one eye shut and mimics peering down a scope, _“-do you_

_… is it… how’s your aim? Y’know, depth perception and all.”_

 

“Why don’t you come and find out?”

 

Sombra lets out a sly giggle, and blows the old woman a kiss. _“En fuego as always. Actually, that’s kinda why we’re having this sneaky sneaky conversation. See, I know who’s in your cell, right now.”_

 

Jack’s eyes widen, and every muscle in his body tenses up in preparation for a sprint to the makeshift cell further inside the base. In all the excitement, he _completely_ forgot about Amélie.

 

_“Don’t worry, don’t worry! I made sure her cell stayed locked when I… well… turned off the lights. Our incy wincy little spider is still caged, mi amigo.”_

 

Patience is not currency Jack has much of, and it’s fast running out. “Am I supposed to be grateful?”

 

_“Wouldn’t hurt - but let’s get down to business. Would you like to see some pictures?”_

 

Before Jack can open his mouth and tell Sombra where to shove it, the screen is filled with a dozen images, all of ruined, charred buildings, burned-out husks of hover-cars and countless dead bodies, all ranging from bullet-ridden to execution-style.

 

Some of the bodies sport a logo Jack is all too familiar with.

 

“Talon,” he mutters.

 

_“I knew I liked you. What you’re seeing is the result of a co-ordinated strike upon Talon. Safehouses, weapons caches… hell, even members on their way to the store. No mercy, and the attackers are in and out. Kinda like me.”_

 

Ana’s normally unwavering voice is filled with faint surprise - _not_ a good omen. “When did this happen?”

 

Sombra smiles a malevolent, amused smile. _“You’re gonna love this - it happened at the same time as the hit on our little spider._ Someone _wants Talon dead, and they’re out for blood.”_

 

The question on everyone’s mind, and the one Jack asks, is who. Judging by the attack he experienced and the pictures Sombra is showing them, whoever they are, they are coordinated, resourceful, methodical and ruthless… and they have Talon in their sights.

 

It seems, however, Sombra isn’t so eager to share _that_ information.

 

_“Ah, well, mi amigo, this is where we make a deal. Meaning, I get what I want, you get to find out who’s kicking our ass.Quid pro quo.”_

 

“And what would that be?” Jack growls.

 

Purple-tipped fingers attached to flat red strips not unlike the ones on her head tap at her lip in mock-thought. _“Well, here’s the thing. I like my life. I like it to be as long as possible, and the way I see it, my life expectancy with Talon is getting shorter and shorter the more… aww, pobrecita, there goes another safe house… the more of our assets are hit. I’m a smart girl, I know when to fold ‘em… and right now is a good time. Way I figure it, my chances of survival get just a little better if I take my excellent skills elsewhere.”_

 

Ana curls a skeptical brow. “You couldn’t possibly mean—”

 

 _“Oh yes.”_ Sombra grins. _“I want to join Overwatch.”_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...what am I even doing?


	3. Chapter 3

“Well isn’t this a sight for sore eyes,” the flamboyantly dressed Sombra says, chuckling with dark amusement as she gazes at the very same screen Jack did the day before. “Incy wincy spider got caught in a web. I’m not sure, but I _think_ that’s irony.”

 

 Well, at least _someone_ finds the situation entertaining. Sombra quietly giggles to herself as she watches the screen, leaving Jack with some time to cast his eyes around the room.

 

It’s like the old gang's back together again. Genji exchanges quiet words with Angela, his green visor occasionally pointing in Sombra’s direction, whilst the good doctor looks most discomforted. Satya Vaswani - apparently the favour Genji called in involved getting her out of Vishkar, and with nowhere else to go, she threw her lot in with the remnants of Overwatch - sits on one of her hard light seats, reading a book whilst shooting irritated glances in Jesse McCree’s direction. The cowboy himself shadowing Sombra, of course.

 

Winston, his huge, bulky form one hell of a distraction if you’re not used to it, sits cross-legged in front of the window, with Lena regaling him with tales of her travels and the tension rising in London. All he’d asked was how Emily was doing… that girl could talk the hind legs off a mule.

 

Reinhardt’s probably off annoying the shit out of Torbjörn elsewhere in the base. Not that it’s difficult.

 

Which leaves Jack, watching Sombra like a sentinel, paying particular interest to her left hand held upright in the air, her left arm across her chest. Undoubtedly _that’s_ something to do with her hacking, so the second it makes a move towards so much as a _toaster,_ that’s what he’ll break first.

 

“Oh, how far the haughty have fallen. If only she could see me now.”

 

“You said you had—”

 

“Hang on,” she says, “I wanna savour this moment. For someone who says she feels nothing, she’s _almost_ as arrogant as Gabe.”

 

“Sombra…”

 

“Fine, fine.” She pouts like a sulky child. Now there’s _two_ kids in the base, goddammit. Three, if Hana was around. “Say,” she says, nodding behind her as she turns to face Jack, “what’s with the escort? I mean, I’m not _complaining_ about Tall, Dark and Handsome over there as my bodyguard-”

 

McCree huffs, scowling as he chews at his cigar. Thank God for the ventilation system.

 

“-but… I kinda get the feeling you don’t trust me.”

 

McCree shadowing Sombra was Satya’s idea. Soon as Winston made the decision to humour the young hacker after a _long_ talk, it was also decided that someone should be looking over her shoulder. Naturally, Genji and Lena were the first to volunteer, but to put a tech-dependent person within hacking range of the most elusive digital terrorist in the world would be disastrous. So, Satya suggested they look for someone she could not easily sway, and McCree fit the bill.

 

Which then led to an indignant, _“You sayin’ I’m low tech?!”_ from the anachronistic cowboy.

 

“We don’t,” Winston chips in. Even while sat, he’s still a head taller. “I don’t like it when people hack Athena.”

 

Taking advantage of the debate, Jack looks up at the security camera overlooking the room, and subtly scratches his brow. The red light blinks twice - a previous request for Athena to patch the observation room’s conversation to the cell further inside the base. Widowmaker can hear every word.

 

Sombra smirks. “Smart move. So,” she saunters around the room, visibly relishing the attention, “from time to time, I like to snoop around the darknet. You know, find some juicy gossip, little secrets, things like that.”

 

The image of Widowmaker moves her head, searching out the source of the transmission. She’s listening. Good.

 

Genji voices his audible disapproval. “So you can blackmail innocent people?”

 

“Exactly, _Sparrow._ Information is power, and _someone_ out there has it all. Plus, if you’re using the darknet in the first place, you’re not exactly innocent. Anyway,” her hack-hand brushes it off, and Jack’s sidearm sees the twitch of his fingers, “a few days ago, I picked up some chatter on the waves. Mostly from one source. Now, you know me, I try to hack it… only, I can’t.”

 

She almost sounds annoyed. “My heart bleeds,” Genji snarks.

 

Shooting him a look, Sombra continues, “Shifting algorithms, firewalls upon firewalls, stuff like that. So, I change tactics, and I hack the messages, and what do I find?”

 

“Cat gifs?”

 

Angela’s the proud owner of another look. “Dates. Times. Coordinates. Pretty weird, si?”

 

“I’m guessing not,” Jack says.

 

“So then I track the coordinates, and would you believe it, each one leads to a Talon safe house. Which I only know after hacking Talon’s database, what with Gabe not trusting me with safe house locations. After that, the source goes quiet… until an hour before the attack. Just one message was sent out before the source disappeared off the net, one message with a single word: _halcyon_.”

 

“A period in the past that was idyllic, happy and peaceful,” Satya says without looking up, like she's reading from a dictionary. “And an activation phrase.”

 

“Or a call to arms,” Genji adds.

 

“I like hers more,” Sombra nods toward Satya, whose response is little more than an arched eyebrow, “so, you can see why I want to be away from Talon. This Halcyon group, as I like to call them? No bueno.”

 

“Evidently someone, or something, has the resources and drive to launch a multi-target attack on a dangerous terrorist organisation, take them completely by surprise _and_ nearly kill their premier assassin.” Winston climbs to his feet, resting his weight on three hands whilst adjusting his spectacles with the fourth. “The question is: why?”

 

“Maybe they’re jus’ done with Talon’s shit,” McCree drawls. “I know I am.”

 

“How’d Gabriel take it?” Jack asks, hoping for the answer he admittedly desperately wants.

 

“How’d you think?” Sombra shrugs. “Guy with a planet-sized ego just lost his pet sniper and half of Talon’s resources. He’s pissed, amigo.”

 

Lena pipes up, one hand on her hip whilst the other gestures elegant waves with each word. “There is another question on my mind: what if we could have allies?”

 

Jack shakes his head. “Talon’s got enemies. That’s not the same thing.”

 

“So how do we proceed? Such a development has provided us with a rare opportunity.” Genji’s visor emits a faint flash as he looks between each occupant. “We should take advantage of it.”

 

Lost in thought, Jack gazes at the screen, where Amélie - though her position has changed to one of intent listening - remains as still as ever. What’s _her_ take on it all? She was the target of one hit, a trap designed to lure her out of the shadows. The spider from the safety of her web.

 

“So, what’s our next move?”

 

Silence follows Lena’s question, a pregnant silence that pricks at the hairs at the back of his neck the longer it draws on, while his mind ticks over. Sure, Talon might have an enemy as ruthless and driven as they are, but there’s no guarantee they wouldn’t be hostile to anyone else. What did they even _know_ about this source, this Halcyon anyway, other than they don’t like terrorists - who doesn’t - and that they’re patient, efficient and committed?

 

There’s another possibility that enters his mind - what if he was recognised? His identity as Soldier: 76 is the worst-kept secret amongst his erstwhile comrades, and even Sombra has managed to suss out his true name. If this Halcyon group did their homework on Talon - the aftermath of their surprise attack made that notion self-evident - there’s every possibility they spotted him in Dorado… and would be curious as to who turned their sniper into paste.

 

The desire to leave Gibraltar grows all the more - as does the sensation of eyes burning into his skull. His eyes automatically flick up, and he realises everyone’s looking at _him._

 

“What?” he asks, face blank. “Keep staring like that, I’m gonna take it personally.”

 

“We’re asking what you think our next move should be, Jack,” Angela says, gesturing toward him. “You were Strike—”

 

“Not any more. You’re looking to the wrong leader.” He inclines his head toward Winston. “He’s the one hankering for the good old days. I’m just passing through.”

 

“Leaving again?” Lena asks - there’s an edge to her voice that sounds almost like disappointment. Kid always wore her heart on her sleeve. Mondatta’s assassination hit her hard.

 

“Damn right. My war’s not gonna fight itself while I stand here talking. I’ve got things to do.”

 

“You could do good here, Jack,” Winston begins, as Jack makes for the door. “Overwatch could—”

 

He whirls around, scowling at the scientist. “Overwatch is dead, Winston. It died long before Switzerland, when we allowed corruption to destroy it from the inside. The world made it clear it doesn’t need more heroes - or did you forget we’re breaking the law, right now?”

 

“What, and you’re not?”

 

“Least I’m not blinded by nostalgia. Overwatch is dead. Let it rest in peace.”

 

Without another word, he takes himself out of the room, Sombra’s _“charming, isn’t he?”_ following him like a delayed snark bomb.

 

Far as he’s concerned, he’s done with Overwatch, and everything included. They can adopt Sombra all they want - it’ll bite them in the ass later, and when Winston gives the go-ahead to set up a meeting, as it’s obvious to Jack he will do? Nothing good will come of it.

 

These Halcyon guys… they don’t sit well with him.

 

Maybe that’s why, in the end, Jack spends the night in Gibraltar amongst the ghosts of the past, staring up at the ceiling whilst the walls of the subterranean barracks breathe memories of camaraderie, glory, righteousness and honor - everything that sounds like stuff out of a self help book written by Reinhardt.

 

He may not be a hero anymore, but when the shit hits the fan, he’ll be there.

 

Old soldiers have their habits, after all.


	4. Chapter 4

The lights of Gibraltar’s recovery room are dull yet pleasant, a far cry from the blinding beams of the operating room’s central bulbs. Heart monitors pip in an unintrusive, comforting rhythm, whilst shimmering blonde hair pools over a pure white pillow. Angela Ziegler sleeps peacefully, a welcome change from the crimson stains and panicked cries upon her return, her own biotic technology repairing each and every bullet hole that once adorned her chest. 

 

Jack, sat in a vigil by her bedside, seethes with anger and  _ righteous goddamn vengeance  _ hidden behind a wall of stoicism and compartmentalisation. He sits hunched with his elbows on his knees, his fingers kneading painful gouges into his palms. He could see it coming a mile off. He could see the word  _ AMBUSH  _ in glowing neon letters as soon as Sombra got a response from Halcyon - and of all the people to be hit the hardest, it was the goddamn glowing heart of Overwatch, the  _ one  _ constant aside from Reinhardt who kept its ideals and behaviour in check.

 

Maybe he’s not the only one getting careless in his old age, since everyone else  _ should  _ have known better.

 

Maybe he should, too. He should have raised hell. 

 

But he just sat on the sidelines, and watched. Even if this gang called itself Overwatch, it wasn’t  _ his  _ Overwatch. This was a group of people left battered and bruised by hate and time, still clinging to the hope that there’s good in the world. And maybe there is. Maybe that’s why Winston was so interested in a cooperation between their ragtag miscreants and this Halcyon. Two groups with the same aim - to rid the world of terrorism. 

 

Only they opened a door to a flashover… and Angela paid the price.

 

The left side of his body prickles, hairs standing up under his black T-shirt and ostentatiously-coloured jacket. The door hasn’t opened or closed since he walked in half an hour ago, so that means…

 

“How long have you been here?”

 

There’s a quiet  _ whoosh _ as the empty space above what he  _ thought  _ was an empty chair warps into a purple hue, before a human being occupies the spot thin air once did, knees drawn up and to the side whilst her arms cross her chest.

 

“Been here all along,” Sombra answers in a quiet, distant voice.

 

Jack casts her a suspicious look out of the corner of his eyes. Of all the people he expects to keep an eye on Angela, the person even  _ he  _ wouldn’t bet on is sat beside the bed. Which begs a specific question, one that intensifies the moment he notices something absent from her lips - that smug smirk.

 

“Why?”

 

Purple eyes flit from Angela’s sleeping form to him and linger for a second or two, before returning to Angela.

 

“I saved her life.”

 

“Yeah, I heard,” Jack says. “Genji says you appeared before Angela hit the ground, grabbed her, and translocated her with you back to the teleporter. Angela wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for you.”

 

Sombra says nothing,  _ does  _ nothing, save for a slow blink and a distant gaze.

 

He presses further. “I’m still wondering why.”

 

“Been asking myself that since we got back.”

 

It hits Jack, then, the nature of her gaze and why it’s so vacant; she’s looking inward. For someone who’s used to viewing the world through a particular, cynical lens, the idea of introspection must seem alien to her.

 

“I’m not used to saving lives.”

 

Jack utters the first  _ huh  _ of a chuckle before he too returns his eyes to the good doctor. Physician, heal thyself.

 

“Welcome to Overwatch, where we all look out for each other.” 

 

The first three words slip easily from his tongue before he can catch himself, and he mentally adds another person to be annoyed at to the ever growing list: himself. ‘Welcome to Overwatch’ was something he said often enough for it to be second nature, a  _ long  _ time ago. Long enough to shake off some bad habits.

 

“I’m guessing that’s something else you’re not used to.”

 

Sombra slowly shakes her head. “Talon didn’t exactly promote such behaviour. Pretty sure if I was in her position-”

 

“Gabe would leave you to die?”

 

Sombra opens her mouth to answer, but the silence is enough. She lets out a long breath through her nose. It’s a telling thing to be confronted with one’s own mortality, and through all her bravado, sass and machinations, Sombra is just as afraid of death as anyone else.

 

And for a few moments, Jack isn’t looking at a master hacker, manipulator and assassin… he’s looking at a little girl, lost at sea.

 

His heart softens just that little bit.

 

“So why did you do it? Put yourself in the line of fire like that - you didn’t just catch her, when Genji jumped in front to deflect the bullets, you shielded her with your body.”

 

Sombra shrugs ever so lightly, and her head shakes the smallest, helpless inch. “I don’t know. I just… as soon as I saw the Bastion unit in their truck… I remembered what happened to my home. I knew what they were gonna do to her… something just took over. Found myself running to her just as the bullets started flying… I can’t explain why I couldn’t let her die.”

 

“Maybe because… deep down, you’re a good person.”

 

Her purple eyes flick over to him, and there’s the element of a look like he’s just said the stupidest thing in the world. Jack leans back into the chair and supports his chin with his hand; acting like a shrink wasn’t in the Strike Commander job description. Some of Angela’s habits are rubbing off on him, it seems.

 

“Stop me if I’m wrong.” He rubs a finger across his lips in thought. “You came here because you figured your life was in danger if you stayed with Talon. You figured you’d be safe with the guy who took down Doomfist, the woman who helped stop a museum robbery, and the best damn doc in the world. Am I right so far?”

 

Her eyes fall an inch.

 

“Only, you get put in a firefight, but rather than run away from danger, you ran straight toward it, and in the process, saved someone’s life. You didn’t think, you just  _ did.  _ Know who that is, in my book?”

 

Her eyes find him again.

 

“A soldier, and a good person.” His free finger points in several vague directions around the base. “Everyone here has put themselves in danger for someone else, people they don’t even know, and people they  _ do  _ know. And that’s what you did. I think you’ll fit right in here.”

 

Sombra utters a light, derisive scoff, and waves aside the implication. “Or maybe I’m a pragmatist who likes the idea of an entire team being in my debt.”

 

A small chuckle escapes Jack’s throat, aged and scratchy, like it was stuck there for years. His fingers rub at the stubble of his jaw, a sign he really should shave. “Maybe… but if  _ that  _ was the case, why have you been at Angela’s bedside all along?”

 

Sombra sucks in a breath as the precursor to a swift rebuttal, but it never comes. At least, not in anything less vague than, “I don’t know.”

 

The corner of Jack’s scarred lips tugs up in a faint smile, and his eyes return to the sleeping angel. “Maybe you’ve just been confronted with a side of yourself you never knew existed, and you think it makes you weak. I mean - hanging around psychopaths and sociopaths kinda does that to you. All I know is that Angela wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for you.”

 

“Or for you.”

 

He looks at Sombra, whose face betrays a little more emotion in the form of an arched, shaved brow. “You knew something was gonna go down, that’s why you sent me, right?”

 

The heart monitor speeds up ever so slightly, enough to register on his senses but not enough to warrant his attention.

 

“Not for sure.” He leans forward with his elbows on his knees. “Part of me was hoping I was wrong.”

 

“Which is why you didn’t go. You figured if Halcyon  _ were  _ on the level, if they saw you after what happened in Dorado,  _ they’d  _ think it was a trap.”

 

Jack nods, fingers playing with themselves. “Yeah. Times like this, I hate when I’m right.”

 

“Mmm. Wasn’t a total disaster though, amigo.”

 

Jack shoots her a look, but his eyes fall upon something black and cylindrical pinched between her left thumb and index finger. He knows enough about technology to recognise it - a flash drive.

 

And written on her face is her signature smug smirk. 

 

“What’s that?”

 

“Power.” She gazes at it almost in reverence. “Information is power, Jack. Before the ambush, I did a little scouting while Halcyon talked their bullshit to Angela. All those phones and tablets, just ripe for the hacking. Most of it is, like, Helix-level encrypted, so it’s gonna take me some time to hack through them but what I  _ did  _ get is here on this little thing. Names, locations, safehouses, small upcoming operations. I’ve been a busy little bee.”

 

The flash drive points toward him.

 

“Yours if you want it, amigo. Just-”

 

The moment Jack reaches for it, his desire for retribution betraying itself in the complete lack of hesitation, she pulls it away a little.

 

“-make ‘em pay.”

 

The stick points back toward him. With more caution, Jack carefully takes it from her, watching her purple eyes with suspicious confusion. “Why me? Why don’t  _ you  _ use this?”

 

She shrugs, though the way her eyes look off to the side suggest theatrics, and that she already thought this through. “The lone wolf vigilante? Not my thing. Besides, I’m gonna be busy attacking Halcyon from the darknet. You hit them physically, I hit them digitally.”

 

The plastic stick feels unnaturally weighted in his palm, like it’s heavy with the present and the future, people’s lives, decisions both made and yet to be made. More rides on the information inside than simple ones and zeroes; a door before him that he’s not sure what’ll happen when he goes through.

 

_ When _ , because a soldier never hesitated at uncertainty.

 

“Thanks,” he says, and looks up.

 

She’s gone. Nothing but empty space again - still, he pokes at the air Sombra used to occupy to make sure. Guess she felt there was no need to hang around. Probably turned invisible and left, or…

 

“She translocated away while you were staring at the stick.”

 

The irony of surviving countless firefights, explosions, ambushes and the near-death at the hands of Widowmaker only to be startled by a weak, strained voice with a Swiss-German accent is not lost on him. Nevertheless, his gaze snaps over to the woman laid in the hospital bed, who watches him through hooded, sky-blue eyes.

 

“Angela…” he grasps for something to say, “...w-when did you-”

 

“Wake up? I believe it was…  _ ‘been here all along’.” _

 

Jack stares blankly at her for a few moments before his tension drops his shoulders, and a self-deprecating chuckle escapes his lips. “So you’ve been eavesdropping.”

 

A small scoff, rough and dry makes an appearance. “It’s not-”

 

She’s cut short by a series of weak yet scratchy coughs that practically bounce her upper body on the bed, and Jack surges to his feet toward the plastic cup of clear water, straw and all, sat on the small table over her hips. Leaning over the bed, fingers that have snapped bone hold the straw with delicate care toward Angela’s pale, dry lips. 

 

“Easy, Angela. You’ve been through a lot.”

 

She forces a weak smile before taking a few sips of water, using it to wet her lips with her tongue.  _ “Danke,”  _ she whispers. “Would you mind?”

 

“No problem.” He straightens up as Angela gestures with her eyes toward the bed controls, and with a finger that strokes up a thin black rectangle against the frame, the top part of the bed elevates the good doctor to somewhere around forty-five degrees.

 

Enough for her to see through him.

 

“It’s not eavesdropping when people actively talk in front of you.”

 

Jack shakes his head in exasperation, though a small smile curls his lips. “There you go, always with the smartass rationalisations.”

 

Her eyebrows bounce, and the right side of her mouth tugs into a smirk. “What can I say? Sometimes you have to be creative.”

 

“Ain’t you just.” Jack mentally slaps himself for the McCree-ism. “Remember anything?”

 

Her eyes flicker into the distance for a few moments, and her face cuts a pained frown. “Fragments. I remember the Halcyon man saying,  _ ‘When we’re done with Talon, we’re coming for you,’  _ then… so much pain. It must have been Sombra who said,  _ ‘I got you,’  _ before I blacked out.”

 

Her gaze finds him again. “You were very kind to her, Jack. I approve - perhaps the Strike Commander did  _ not  _ die in Switzerland.”

 

Jack rolls his eyes behind their lids, and leans the cup in if only to cut  _ that  _ particular topic off at the pass. Jack Morrison, Strike Commander, posterboy and all-American hero  _ did  _ die in Switzerland, and Jack Morrison, Soldier: 76, dark vigilante and rule breaker was born from the ashes. There’s nothing else to discuss.

 

Angela takes another few sips. “When will you be leaving?”

 

Jack betrays himself to her armor-piercing question when his body tenses like a rigid board, and an all-too audible breath catches in his throat. Is he  _ that  _ obvious in his desire to get the hell out of Gibraltar? 

 

“What makes you think I’m leaving?”

 

“Your entire affect since you arrived with Amélie. You couldn’t wait to leave - though I do understand. This place…” her eyes look up, around, and  _ through  _ the ceiling, “...it echoes with the ghosts of the past.”

 

Jack nods to the side, conceding the point. Placing the cup back on the table, he pulls his jacket up a little so he can sit on the edge of the bed. “Tonight. Earlier I go, earlier I can take the fight to Halcyon.”

 

“I expected as much.” Her voice is free of judgement, which is odd to him, yet there’s a tangible tone of disappointment as her gaze falls. “I suppose your war hasn’t changed - only your enemies.”

 

“What do you want me to say, Angela? These guys, they’re dismantling Talon bit by bit. They nearly killed  _ you  _ \- and you said it yourself, once they’re done with Talon, they’re coming for us. I need to protect those I care about.”

 

She looks back up at him, and there’s a wry lopsided smile that she always wore when, in the past, he’d said something stupid.

 

“You said  _ ‘us’.  _ You still consider us a team.”

 

Jack quickly shook his head and waved off the implication. “Slip of the tongue.”

 

To his dismay, the lopsided smirk becomes a full one. It heartens him in a way to know Angela is every bit as laser-perceptive as she used to be back in the day, yet it’s as much a pain in the ass now as it was then. “Mmm.” 

 

“... what?”

 

“I was just thinking… do you remember the fundraising event in Numbani?”

 

How could he forget? The charity called  _ Unity  _ had launched a fundraising ball to promote and facilitate integration around the world for the Omnics who were victims of the racial discrimination and prejudice still prevalent even decades on from the war. Overwatch, as the main force behind the victory in that war, had been invited to show the world that even  _ they  _ wanted peace and cooperation between human and Omnic. Reinhardt had politely declined, Torbjörn  _ not  _ so politely, and Reyes couldn’t care less. Which left Jack, Angela, Lena, Gérard… and Amélie.

 

That was the night she wore that stunning long black dress with a lace-up low cut plunge. The night Jack was having difficulty keeping his attention on Tekartha Mondatta’s speech and  _ not  _ on the elegant French woman turning heads wherever she went, standing surprisingly close.

 

And the conversations that followed were stimulating and stuck with him long afterwards.

 

“What about it?”

 

“Well, around that time, I had what we in the medical profession call an unrequited schoolgirl crush. On you.”

 

“Oh.” Years as Strike Commander and the face of Overwatch, spokesperson and leader, and all he can manage in response to Angela’s confession is a vacant  _ ‘oh’.  _ No wonder Blackwatch festered inside the organisation like sepsis, if he couldn’t even notice fucking  _ Mercy  _ crushing on him.

 

“ _ Ja.  _ I could not find the right time to tell you, what with crisis after crisis, so the fundraiser was the perfect time. Only… someone else had your eye.”

 

**“** Ah.” The awkward tension building up inside spills out in a sigh, and his body sags in embarrassment. “Amélie.”

 

“Yes. When you thought no-one was looking, you would steal glances at her… and would it surprise you to learn you had  _ her  _ eye, too?”

 

“I…  _ what?” _

 

“Indeed.” One hand sporting a cannula encloses over the other. “When she was not engaged in conversation with Gérard, I caught her looking at you many times.”

 

Jack buries his scarred face in his hands, starkly aware the heat in his cheeks is rivalling the cosy room’s light. “I had no idea… do you… do you still—?”

 

A tired laugh is let loose within the walls, and though it also deepens his shame, the sound lifts Jack’s heart. She’ll be fine. “ _ Nein _ . Time and acceptance has seen to that - besides, my work leaves little time for activities of the romantic variety.”

 

Jack chuckles, the smile chasing away his self-conscious embarrassment. “Married to the job, huh? I can relate. Why do you mention Numbani?”

 

“Because you’re going to need help with your war.”

 

His eyes, clear in their incredulity, find hers - and she’s  _ actually serious.  _ It’s a thin-lipped, stern-eyed look she only ever wore when dealing with particularly uncooperative patients - namely  _ him -  _ so he knows she’s not messing around.

 

Which only confuses him all the more.

 

“You gotta be kidding.”

 

“Jack, first and foremost, I am a doctor, and my duty of care is to my patients. In that cell-” she nods in the vague direction of said cell, far on the other end of the base, “-is someone who, whether she likes it or not, is my patient. As are you.”

 

Jack pushes himself off the bed and walks to the window. It’s not  _ technically  _ a window, more a digital representation of the Alps generated by Athena. Still, the snow-capped mountains do not lose their realism, and for a few moments, he’s back in Switzerland. “All the more reason to keep her locked up. She’s dangerous, Angela. She killed Mondatta without breaking a sweat in front of hundreds of people, a dedicated security service  _ and  _ Lena.”

 

“That was Widowmaker, not Amélie.”

 

Jack forces out a sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Angela-”

 

“Listen to me. I refuse to believe that Amélie,  _ our  _ Amélie, would willingly commit such atrocities. Which tells me, as I told you before, Talon must have done something to her mind. Now, I can heal the physical, but the mental is out of my area of expertise.”

 

He turns to give her a dumbfounded look. “And you think it’s in mine?”

 

Her lips curl into that infernal knowing smirk. “Your talk with Sombra suggests so.”

 

His hand waves it off as he shakes his head, eyes focusing on her heart monitor. “That’s different. Sombra’s a scared girl behind a bulletproof front who just found out what she’s really capable of.”

 

“You’re only reinforcing my point. Jack, sooner or later, Amélie’s programming will fall apart, as all brainwashing is apt to do. It is inevitable. When it does, and it will, I would rather it happen around someone she cared for before she became Widowmaker, than a white padded cell surrounded by those who likely still hold a dislike to her.”

 

She holds out a hand. “Who better to understand post-traumatic stress disorder… than an old soldier?”

 

Jack eyes it for a few seconds, before letting loose a defeated sigh as he returns to her bedside. Calloused, stiff fingers enclose around dainty, pale digits. “What if you’re wrong, and Amélie is really dead?”

 

She squeezes his fingers. “Then you will be in the perfect position to do what is necessary. Regrettable, but necessary.”

 

Jack looks away, his eyes fixed upon the ever shifting form of possibility and the ever warping future. He’s only survived so far on tenacity and dumb luck, like Ana’s presence in Egypt saving his ass from becoming shotgun-paste. One of those is sure to run out before the other, and if Halcyon is as big, as deep, as sprawling as Sombra’s intel implies, there’s no way in hell he makes it out alive.

 

Which he’s fine with - a soldier never backs down from impossible odds, but...with the world’s greatest sniper… his odds get that little bit better.

 

“You really think it’ll work?” he murmurs.

 

“I hope, Jack. Not many of us get a chance at redemption, and even less of us deserve it. Help Widowmaker find hers.”

 

Jack opens his mouth to protest some more, subject Angela to a list of all the ways her idea could blow up in his face, or end with a sniper bullet in his forehead. Worse, she could alert Reyes to his presence, and sic transit gloria Jack Morrison, victim of optimism and hope. The prospect of such a risk doesn’t fail to arouse a sense of deep disquiet within his gut.

 

And yet, a thrill. What’s life without risk? Besides - even if she does alert Reyes, he’ll be ready for him. 

 

And then he’ll do what he should have done a long time ago - send that bastard straight to hell.

 

“Alright,” he finally rasps, “I’ll give her a shot.”

 

Angela’s smile widens, and gives his hand a grateful squeeze. “ _ Danke,  _ Jack. Now, I must return to my pretend-sleep in case Lena visits. I’m afraid I don’t have the energy for her… energy.”

 

Almost as if by cosmic coincidence, or the big guy upstairs has a sadistic sense of humour or vendetta against the good doctor, three raps against the door alert them to a visitor. Jack looks up just as the door opens, and a faint blue glow from behind it heralds the arrival of only one person.

 

“Hey, doc!” Lena hisses, poking her head around the door. At least she’s  _ trying  _ to rein herself in. “Cavalry’s here to check up on—oh, sorry, love!”

 

She wears that classic startled look of walking in on a private conversation under her renegade brunette hair, as her eyes dart between them. “Did I interrupt something? I can come back-”

 

“Yes, that would be-”

 

“Nah,” Jack says loudly, cutting Angela off mid-sentence. “I’m just leaving. Dr. Ziegler’s been looking forward to your company, haven’t you?”

 

The two-second, thin-lipped glare Angela gives him in response to his wry smirk would be enough to incinerate even Mei, before she plasters a smile on her face and regards the petite English girl with rehearsed eyes of welcoming.

 

“Indeed. You must tell me all about Emily.”

 

Lena’s mouth splits into a wide beam, and as she shuffles through the door, to Angela’s just-about-disguised horror - the squeeze of Jack’s hand was all it took to betray her reaction - and Jack’s hidden mirth, she is followed by Genji, Satya, and McCree. Jack’s hand is squeezed harder with each arrival, and as soon as Reinhardt manages to scootch his humongous frame through the doorway, even the SEP can’t stop the loss of blood to his fingers.

 

The urge to let out a mischievous laugh is almost unbearable.

 

Angela tugs on his hand whilst opening her other arm as a silent request for a hug, one which Jack is only too happy to oblige. As soon as her arms enclose around him, however, he feels a whisper in his ear.

 

“You, old friend, are lucky you have witnesses, for I am tempted to take my oath to do no harm and beat you around the head with it.”

 

“Love you too, Mercy,” he chuckles.

 

“Come back safe, Jack.”

 

The embrace turns from  _ ‘I will kill you’  _ to  _ ‘be safe, my friend’,  _ and for a few brief moments, he considers reneging on his personal vow to bring down Halcyon if only to dwell longer in the warmth of human contact. 

 

However, he has a job to do, a war to fight...

 

...and a stop at the armory to make.


End file.
